by Arthur Smid

He held the boy in his arms, waiting for fire.
The glow from the golden lamp. As in a wasteland
The future stood growing up. The world
Indifferent? Or was each person wrapped up
In a world and indifferent to other worlds.

There could be one world. It’s frozen.
Its time is bound to clocks and a pattern
In the face of the sun. We have both
Arms reaching up in the morning
To find life. A spring straight
From the source.

Our spring in one part of the world
Another winter. How we could change
The world, the desert. Now cradle
That baby, changing its mind somehow
Slumbering wet sleep like a question
Unknown. Unnameable. Changing.

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